


of Trevor Philips and Dirty Mutts

by bicboy



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: A Slight Comparison Between Trevor Phillips and Mutts, Canon Compliant, Canon-typical language, Ending C: The Third Way, Fluff, M/M, Not a Character Study, Puppies, Short & Sweet, and fawning over stray puppies, havin long gayass walks on beach under the stars together, just dudes bein dudes, post ending C
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 21:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12541744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bicboy/pseuds/bicboy
Summary: He laughs at the correlation between Trevor and a dog, a mutt - a dirty mongrel. But what a better way to describe his old running buddy?What, again, would that make Michael?Oh, right. The sick fuck keeping the dog alive for his own selfish reasons.





	of Trevor Philips and Dirty Mutts

**Author's Note:**

> old dumpster fire otp, hello

There are a lot of things that Trevor _fucking_ Philips is capable of, but _compassion_? was not one of them. What Trevor thinks are tender touches are really hard prods in the dips of pressure points and calloused fingers over sensitive wounds. Empathy, for him, was an offered bump of coke that he maybe, _maybe_ , might not charge you for. Trevor _fucking_ Philips was a man of many feats, but love and sensitivity and otherwise humane moral; they weren't things he ever showed signs of harboring. And it was both fascinating and terrifying, yet impossible to pry yourself away from. Like a high you can't get enough of so you keep chasing it with shit after shift on top of shit. Of course, you only ever fuck yourself over. Was this any different?

Maybe, Michael muses, there's something soft buried at the deepest core of his old friend. Maybe there's a part of him that drains or leaks fluids from the eyes, though with Trevor he's not sure if tears and crying are what he's trying to articulate. But he knows that there must be a string of something good tethered to him, from somewhere. At one point, he thinks, maybe _he_ was the thing that tethered him to the good, the grounded. It makes him sick to think he could have been the very one to pull him _out_ of that type of reality too, that maybe he ruined Trevor.

But Trevor was always ruined, even before they met.

Still, that doesn't mean Michael dislikes him. They fight and bicker and the arguments are dangerous and volatile, but the good times with him were always so very, _very_ good. He hates that he can only find that kind of enjoyment in this piece of shit, meth-head gang banger. He's not the same man he'd been so... well, not infatuated with - but maybe. Maybe in some sick, twisted way, he did love Trevor. The way someone loves the ragged, worn down old rabid dog with nowhere left in life to go but towards the end of its existence. A sick dog, that's what Trevor was - and Michael was the sick, selfish prick that couldn't bring himself to put the poor thing out of its misery. He laughs at the correlation between Trevor and a dog, a mutt - a dirty mongrel. But what a better way to describe his old running buddy?

What, again, would that make Michael?

Oh, right. The sick fuck keeping the dog alive for his own selfish reasons, though the connections to follow are always strained and heartbreaking. If not one day is shitty, the next surely will be. 

Despite all that Trevor seems to have in common with an old, grungy hound, man's best friend and loyal (but easily also a snake, only good to you when it benefits him), Michael never considered Trevor might be able to even tolerate a dog. That's why it's so heart-stopping worrisome when the two come across a stray dog roaming the beach of Los Santos in the late hours. Where on the beach they've journeyed to lost track of, but the sun has set and nothing but orange illuminates them over the darkness of another settling night looming over the outskirts of the bright city. He inhales slowly, running a worried hand through his hair as he watches Trevor lock his sights upon the pup. His heart fucking _hammers_ hard, once, into his throat as Trevor crouches down. Effectively, his back to Michael, he cannot see what it is he does to the (poor?) thing - his moving shoulders, the jerking of his elbow - he doesn't want to know.

Afraid that the smell of putrid, sour innards might waft from Trevor as he stands up quickly, Michael takes an incredulous step back as Trevor produces the small creature. He grimaces, winces.. then his expression softens as he watches Trevor whisper sweet nothings to the small thing, however laced with inert malice. But when does Trevor _not_ talk with a shred of detest? Just slightly less so now, in the presence of a stranded and shivering mutt.

"Poor little fucker," he tells it, one hand under its belly to firmly but carefully cradle it and the other at the back of its head, two fingers delicately pinching the scruff of the mutt so he does not shimmy or fall. It yips softly, and Michael tenses as Trevor lowers his face to it. A wave of relief crashes through Michael when Trevor only simply brings his dry, cracked lips to its soft forehead, kissing it wetly, audibly. Michael bristles, eyes wide as he waits for Trevor to snap - himself or the pup's neck. He shudders. "He's all lost and alone. Like me."

Michael scoffs, rolling his eyes to the dark sky. The worry he'd originally felt washes out of him like a slippery, indescribable melting from him to the ground. He feels better, trusts Trevor enough with the fragile life to flicker his eyes to his newly presented pack of Redwood. He taps the bottom of it and pulls a stick from the pack, trading it for a lighter from his pocket. When he turns his eyes to the end of the cigarette, one hand cupping the flame of his lighter, he can see Trevor's scowling face over the small glow.

"What?" Michael snaps, cocking his head and splaying his hands out exasperatedly, the butt of the cigarette still hanging loosely between his lips. "You gon' get on my ass for smoking again? What're you, my nagging wife now, T?"

"I don't give a flying fuck about your shitty, tar-laced lungs, Mikey," he hisses, and for the first time Michael notices that he has the small dog tucked under his arm, a protective hand over its snout. "I care that secondhand smoke is fucking _atrociously_ lethal to dogs, _M._ " Mostly for show, Trevor swipes the cancer stick from Michael's mouth, leaving his lips gaping and his eyebrows furrowed as Trevor crushes the tobacco stick in his hand.

Michael makes an irritated, guttural noise but flicks his hands upwards, mock defeated. "Whatever, Trev. Didn't know you were such a big fucking _softy_."

"I ain't a fuckin' softy, asshole. I just have a heart."

Michael laughs. "Oh yeah? Is that scientifically proven? I need to see some evidence on that one."

And then, to the dog, Trevor coos about what a piece of shit Michael is.

**Author's Note:**

> i..............................don't think this fandom exists anymore D8


End file.
